


Infestation

by GarrulousGibberish (orphan_account)



Series: Rats in the System [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Alternate Universe - Zombies, Angst, Apocalypse, Arc II, Continuation, Dark, Gen, Gore, Hurt/Comfort, Kink Meme, On the Run, Pre-Slash, Race Against Time, Search for a Cure, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Ideation/Actions, ZAU, ZAUII, Zombie Apocalypse, Zombies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-06
Updated: 2013-12-11
Packaged: 2017-11-20 11:24:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/584889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/GarrulousGibberish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everything was supposed to be better now. They had a cure. That was supposed to mean the end of their troubles, wasn't it? If only things could ever be so simple.</p><p>The second and final arc of <i>Rats in the System.</i> </p><p>Discontinued as I am no longer active in this fandom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The First Days (As the World Dies)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BlueItem](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=BlueItem).



> Thank you for joining me for Arc II of Rats in the System. Let's get going!

Mycroft was trying very hard not to lose his temper at the sheer stupidity of the people he subsisted with in this prison.

Orrin pawed at the map pinned to the work table. “Leaving would mean suicide. We’re safe _here_. I am not risking everyone’s lives on a false hope.”

“No one said you had to, we’re merely suggesting it,” Thomas rebuked. “We only have so long that we can stay here—“

“We can stay here as long as we need to! There is no pressing reason to abandon what we’ve worked for!”

“There is a very good reason!” Mycroft cut in. “We only have a limited amount of supplies here. We cannot continue to rely on the scraps we scrape together forever. We need a more permanent—a _safer_ —place of residence, instead of hiding like rats in the sewers—“ Orrin threw his arms out as if to strike him.

“It keeps us alive, you worthless oaf!” Orrin raged. “Your plan would kill us all.”

He didn’t give a damn about the group as a whole. There were only three people he wanted to protect, and his own skin was high on the list.

Mycroft rose from his seat and drew himself to his full height. “At least if we leave there is a chance. Staying _here_ is a death sentence. We will starve before—“

“Don’t start that again. Your case is poor and your logic is faulty.”

The collar of his shirt grew uncomfortably warm, but Mycroft ignored it. His composure had already suffered far too much in the hours of their many disputes. It was not his own logic that was flawed; he assuredly knew that much. Orrin’s fear of the unknown and sentimentality towards his family kept him from seeing reason. At this rate, they were all doomed—his family included.

But getting him to understand as much would appear to be far beyond his capabilities.

“Da, enough. I don’t want to hear anymore fighting,” Maria, his thirteen year-old daughter intervened. She walked between the two fuming men with tired patience and Mycroft debated telling her to step aside, but Orrin visibly deflated. She took his hand and he sighed tiredly.

“It’s nothing to worry about, dear. Did we wake you?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” she admitted. “Come read to me? I’m sure mum would like it.”

The man nodded, turning to follow her out of the alcove where they had gathered.

“We’re not finished discussing this,” Mycroft told him.

“Enough, Mycroft,” Orrin snapped. “You and your bloody conspiracies will drive everyone here mad with paranoia. I don’t care who you were back before all this; you’re no one now.” Maria pulled at his hand and this time he followed her away.

Mycroft bowed his head and rubbed at his temples.

“He’s not going to listen to what you have to say. I don’t know why you bother with him. Why don’t you just go on your own?” Thomas asked him.

Mycroft looked him in the eye. “Do you side with him, then? Do you think that we would be better off here?”

“I…I don’t know,” he lamented. “I don’t think there’s any clear choice here. Damned if we do, damned if we don’t, as it were.”

“At least we would have an opportunity at survival out there. How many times now has Henry gone and come back to us? We could make it, but our chances are better if we remain together.”

“Yeah, but Henry’s young and quick. Think about the others we’ve sent out there and _haven’t_ come back. I’m just not sure that we can’t make here work.”

Thomas shook his head and wrung his shaking, aging hands. Arthritis that had been subdued by medications causing him slighting amounts of discomfort now, Mycroft noted. Possibly withdrawal from less justifiable narcotics, as well. The tremors had been growing more and more noticeable with each passing day.

“I am positive that staying here will be the end of us,” Mycroft contended. “And I intend for you all to stop deluding yourselves and see it as such.”

With nothing further to add, he left to immerse himself in the isolation of his quarters. Another strategy was obviously in order.

* * *

The Compound was surrounded by many buildings and homes, as the university had been the epicentre of a small town. Following the several months in which the virus spread and The Compound was taken over, most, if not all, of these homes had been pillaged. Food, as well as material needs like blankets and most cutlery, had been taken, leaving what remained as a desolate ghost town. Still, from what little remained, there was enough to create shoddy provisions. But anything was better than nothing. Sherlock and John took what they could, as quickly as they could, and left while the moon hung high above them.

No point in lingering.

With no general idea as to where to go now that they were moving, they followed the river. They remained to the wooded area as a ways away from the banks with clear, open space, so as to provide a (limited) cover. Moving around at night was dangerous. Hopefully, if they covered enough ground, they would not have to do this for the duration of the future. While it made it easier to see, it also made it easier for them to _be_ seen. Sticking to the trees was safer.

John's anger was palpable, though he remained silent while they trekked. Sherlock worked on disentangling a rope they had pilfered to occupy himself, all the while keeping a close eye on his companion. He didn't know whether his temper would fade or flare if he were to try to converse with him on the matter, but he assumed the latter, so wisely held his tongue. But he could only stand the silence for so long.

“What—“

“How _could_ they?” snarled John. Sherlock blinked. He had been intending on asking about the sleeping arrangements, but if John wished to talk, then they would discuss what had happened.

“They were scared,” Sherlock reasoned.

John turned round on him. “And we bloody weren't?” Sherlock felt tempted to say that, indeed, he had not been afraid. At least, not for himself. But John was still ranting. “We had the cure! And they just threw it away at Moriarty's word. How could he even do that? Manipulate so many people so quickly?”

“Fear makes people even more imbecilic than their usual norm. And all the best lies have a kernel of truth they seed from.”

“But _why?_ What gain could he possibly have to do this? He's a victim in this just as much as the rest of us. Wouldn't having the cure be in his favour?”

Well, he did still have Anderson, but... Sherlock theorized that the man would not be used to help recreate the cure. If anything, it would condemn him. Sherlock's cure was poison.

“Moriarty—he burns everything. Anything. He plays the game and then destroys the board when he thinks it's finished.”

John stopped short.

“Serves them right,” he bit, cruelly.

John didn't mean that; of course he didn't. He would never bid ill will towards so many people he had cared for and about. He felt betrayed, and rightfully so. When he calmed down, he would take those words back. It was understandable, of course, but his anger was making him reckless. Dried twigs scorched by the sun snapped noisily under his tread. They were drawing too much attention.

“It would be best to seek refuge for the night and take inventory of our possessions. We can cover more ground in the morning light rather than tripping over ourselves in the dark.”

John sighed hard, but his heavy footfalls ceased. “Yes, alright. But where? If we follow the river, we'll have it as a resource, but we'll also be easier to spot. We're completely vulnerable out here; our only weapon being my Browning.” He lifted the weapon from his belt. “We need to figure out what the hell we're going to do to survive this.”

Sherlock bowed his head. John was just repeating the obvious, but it would not be best to agitate him further when his emotional state was in upset. The compound may not have been perfect or even remotely akin, but it had been safe and stable. They had shelter and provisions. Normalcy. Perhaps before, routine would have been tedious (and to Sherlock, it remained so afterwards), but the routine comforted John. He'd become complacent when the war had not ended.

But Sherlock was not worried. He had no doubt that the excitement of danger would bring his friend out of his tumult. He did wonder, however, how long it would take John to work through his anger.

Tedious.

They camped a safe ways from the river with no light save the quarter moon. Sherlock splayed the contents of their scavenging between them. It was hardly much. All the edible food had been taken in by The Compound, thus meaning they had no rations. They had a single blanket, four bottles (filled with tepid water from the river), a third of a matchbook, scissors, a thin length of rope, and a torch. Sherlock momentarily flicked it on to produce a strong beam of light, then flicked it off. Good. They would preserve the batteries. It would surely come in handy.

“The first order of business would be to gather food.” Sherlock looked to the rope. “Can you do something with that?”

John fumbled for the rope to gauge its strength. “Maybe, but even so, it's going to take some time to catch anything. And we can't afford to stay put for too long. We'll have to get by on whatever we can gather until we catch something else. We're lucky I had my gun fully loaded before we left,” he said.

Sherlock did not like the way the word 'lucky' was twisted in his mouth.

“We will have to find some other sort of weapon so as to ration the bullets. The Compound was more secluded, but if we keep following this river, we will have to run into another residential area. Perhaps there will be more to scavenge there by means of food and weaponry.”

“Right. We have a plan, then. For tonight we'll camp here. It can't be more than a few hours until dawn. We'll move out then.”

Sherlock nodded his agreement and replaced the items in the backpack, careful to lay the blanket first so as to cover a hole in the right corner. “I'll take first watch,” he volunteered. Sleep would help John's temperament, and his own adrenaline was still running high despite having slowed their pace. He would be far too awake to do any sleeping in the few hours they had left before sunrise. He wanted John back to normal by then.

“I think I should take it,” John insisted, jaw set. He needed to just _stop_ being so stubborn. He could see Sherlock about to protest, so he continued, “I wasn't the one that just got bit by his friend and then had to shoot and bury him all in one night. We've done a lot of running tonight, and your body needs the rest more than mine. I'm not debating it, Sherlock. We'll discuss how we break up watches later on.” He took his Browning from his belt once more, perched on a large stone, and faced into the darkness.

Sherlock did not argue, but neither did he sleep. He gave John the space of silence he so desperately sought, just watching him scowl at his own thoughts. The anger was not receding; if anything, it was growing, and it gave the detective pause.

John may not be back to normal in the morning, he concluded.


	2. Pariah

To an extent, Sherlock almost lauded the single-minded determination in which John invoked in order to avoid any further confrontation with Sherlock. Even when Sherlock was more than willing to admit that he was directly causing the tension, despite the fact that he wasn’t entirely certain as to how. He must have done _something_ in order for John to pull away from him. Especially considering there was from no one else he could choose to interact with, and yet still remained obstinately silent.

The sticky warmth made his clothes cling to his body uncomfortably, as well as his hair flop into his eyes. The riotous curls seemed to get worse the longer it got, and though he attempted to keep them back with water, the heat would ensure they were back in his line of sight in a moment’s notice. It was beyond irritating, and so he tried to focus on what was around to appease his hyperactive mind. There wasn’t much. Trees and water and dirt and John.

John who couldn’t be bothered to converse with him due to his selfish tantrum.

“Are you quite through being angry with me?” Sherlock complained, following John’s footsteps though the riverside bramble. Mud and twigs stuck to the soles of his shoes, making him feel off balance. John didn’t turn to look back at him.

“I’m not angry with you,” John said, curtly.

Sherlock readjusted the strap on his shoulder where it had begun to wear his coat thin. “You are. If you weren’t, you wouldn’t be avoiding the subject. Or myself.”

“I’m not avoiding you, and I’m not angry,” John rectified, though his point would be much better proven if he would even bother to look at Sherlock.  “I will be if you keep asking me.”

Rubbish. If Sherlock didn’t keep pestering him, he would never say anything. He tried again.

“This trek would be far less tiresome if you would just be out with it.”

John cracked a thick twig with the pressure of his heel.

“Do you want me to punch you?”

Sherlock fingered the underside of his eye, still tender from where he’d been struck before.

“Not particularly.”

“Then stop provoking me.”

Another snapped twig.

“But I would rather you just get it out rather than ignoring me. I am _bored_ ,” Sherlock qualified, “and being cross and walking in silence will drive me mad.”

“Then find something else to entertain you, Sherlock! One of us is trying to keep alert.”

A lie. His anger was distracting him more than anything else. His attention was focused inwards, towards whatever was igniting his rage. But at least it was something to _focus on_. Sherlock’s mind felt like insects were secreting in his ears and drilling through his skull. At least when he’d been working on the cure he’d had something to do. Something to preoccupy himself with. But here there were no formulas to configure; no mixtures to study. Not even people to deduce about their inane daily activities. To think now he _missed it._ The most interesting creature he’d seen in these days of travel have been fowl and something that may have been a type of cat—

He stopped.

“The kitten.”

“What?”

Sherlock quickened his step to reach John’s side. “Conan. He wasn’t in our room when we left.”

“No, he wasn’t,” John said, still refusing to look in his direction. In profile, Sherlock could see the severe lines around his scowl and on his brow deepen. Maybe this was a factor in his sudden animosity?

“Why not?”

“He died.”

“What? How? He’d been perfectly healthy the last I’d seen him.”

“That was two days before he’d even died,” John pointed out waspishly. “You were too busy. You should take better care of your pets.”

That was unfair.

“I was on the cusp of a cure, John,” he justified. His work took precedence over all other matters in his mind; he should know this. He had accepted it before, so why should he expect any different?

John shot him a glare over his shoulder. “And that excuses your lapse in responsibilities, does it? I can’t always be there to clean up your mistakes.”

“Is that why you’re angry?”

“No.”

“But you _are_ angry,” he clarified.

“I am _now_.”

“If you would just—“

“Enough, Sherlock! Enough talking. I’m sick of it. I’m sick of—“ He stopped, bowed his head and took a breath. His hands shook where they were clenched at his sides, Sherlock observed. He was trying very hard to hold back his fury. John removed the Browning from his trousers and rounded back on Sherlock, brandishing the (safety checked) weapon in his face.

“I have thirteen rounds, Sherlock. Thirteen. Then we’re defenceless. We have no food. We have very little supplies. We don’t even know where the _fuck_ we’re going aside from _somewhere else_ , so unless you have something useful to contribute, I don’t want to bloody hear it.”

Frustration was beginning to rise up hot in Sherlock by this point. John was being completely unreasonable. It wasn’t as if being upset would help them either, so why was he taking it out on him? Sherlock felt very inclined at that moment to tell him exactly who was currently putting them at more risk but bit his ire back. That wasn’t going to help. John needed to get over what was currently irritating him, not be set off by something unrelated. It solved nothing.

Maybe if he appeased John’s sense of authority he would recover faster, even if Sherlock thought none of the things he told him. Worth trying.

“I am open to suggestions. Anything,” Sherlock said, careful to keep his tone on the believable side of pleading. John stopped and Sherlock plaintively added, “I am at a loss.”

The silence was tense until the time that John shook his head and sighed. Exasperation. Perhaps resignation.

“We don’t have much to work with,” he said, then expounded, “We’ve been walking for almost three days—you’d think we’d run into something by now. A bridge or a road or something manmade. But there’s been nothing. We couldn’t have gone that far away from any sort of civilization. There should be a sign as to something around here that could help us.” John ruffled his hair as he thought. “Maybe it’s time we abandon the river. If we head to high ground, we could scope out where to go next. Double back if need be.”

“Alright,” Sherlock agreed. “After you.”

* * *

 

It was hours to dusk and by now most had turned in for their nightly routines. Mycroft took the responsibility for that night of watching their gate, though his reasoning was far from altruistic. Their scavenger was loading his belt with handheld weapons as he prepared to head out.

“Henry? Could you spare a moment?” Mycroft asked.

Henry gave him a wry look over his shoulder. “Knew you’d be asking me for something sooner or later. You hate watching the gate, so I had to wonder.” He fastened up his coat sleeves. “What do you want?”

Mycroft eyed him. “You know better than any of us what lies out there now. Tell me, if we were to try to move from here, what would be our chances?”

Henry paused. “Well…that depends on how many. All of you?” He levelled his stare. “Or just you?”

Mycroft prevaricated, “The exact number is undetermined. Your answer?”

Henry turned away from his to continue gathering his pack. The light was growing dimmer, making their recess harder to navigate. The lights were all kept inside to keep at bay any unwanted attention. This boy had been the one to inform them that those infected were attracted to the light, along with countless other advice that may well have saved them. To think this rogue is the one that kept them alive now. Without his work, they would have starved long ago or been infected scavenging. And the few that had tried were now gone. They were solely dependent on an unpredictable teenager. It made Mycroft’s toes curl at the sheer vulnerability of their situation.

“I really don’t know what to tell you. It’s not good out there, and the people in here aren’t exactly all that able. I mean, the kids might be alright, but you guys are all older and slower. Not to, er, insinuate nothin’. When Al was still around we were fine, but even he got caught out there.” He shrugged into the strap of his bag and turned to Mycroft’s steely eyes.

Allan had been one of the youngest of their group before Henry. The fastest and the bravest. It was that bravery that made him ask Henry to bring him along in the search for supplies. A search that Mycroft had told him to think better of, but was ultimately cast aside. Allan did not return. Henry did.

Henry told them Allan had been trapped and that he had no other option. He left Allan for dead.

Mycroft held no false beliefs that the same would not happen to them should Henry feel it necessary.

Their lives were entrusted to a deserter.

Henry continued to chatter on, failing to recognise the shift in Mycroft’s temperament. “I’m good, but I can’t take care of you all out there. You don’t know how to defend yourselves, and even if you did that doesn’t guarantee anything. They’re fast, if they’re fresh, and it’s easy to get caught if you’re in big groups.”

“We need to get to that place you talked about. The haven.”

“The Compound? Mate, that’s pretty far from here.” He rocked his weight on the balls of his feet. “With all of you, there’s no way we would make it.”

The elder man frowned. He had hoped there would be a better way, but it would seem there was not.

“Then if it were just I alone?”

Henry frowned and shook his head. “I don’t know. It’s still not a good idea. You’re not very fast or a strong fighter—sorry, but you’re not—and it’s a journey from here. I could probably map it out for you, but I’m not going to leave the city again. ‘Sides, these guys need me, and that’s several days of traveling, there.”

Mycroft folded his arms thoughtfully. The notion of abandoning the others was not ideal. It would be more dangerous, but it was in the best interest of them all if they could leave at once. Conceivably, if they could travel in smaller groups they would be more inclined to try. Reduce the hazard as much as possible. But Henry was right; they couldn’t defend themselves out there. That would need to be fixed.

And if they refused to save themselves, he would have no other choice than to move on.

“If the time comes, could you get one out of the city?”

“I could try, but I make no promises. If we go out there, I’m not going to protect you. You can either keep up or get lost. It’s the way it’s got to be.”

 “Fine. If it comes to that, then so be it.”

“Just so we’re clear,” Henry added, then cleared his throat. “I’ll be off. See you at daybreak.”

Mycroft nodded and allowed him through the swinging chain link before latching it behind him. If this was to be the case, then he would have to prepare himself. The time of being idle had passed; it was now the call to action. He watched as Henry disappeared with the last vestiges of light.

Training would start tomorrow.

* * *

 “That storm is heading right for us,” Sherlock said, peering at the black-grey clouds precariously sitting atop the mountain ridge.

“I hadn’t gathered,” John droned irritatingly. Sherlock frowned at the back of his head since he’d gone back to not looking at him. “But you see those buildings out there? We might make it before the storm hits, if we’re lucky. It’s a good thing we didn’t keep following the river or else we would be stuck in those hills for ages.”

“Yes. Shall we leave, then?”

John mumbled his assent and headed on. Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek to keep from exacerbating John’s mood with the cutting remark searing the inside of his mouth and trailed behind. More than anything he wanted John to have it out with him or to just swallow his anger. This antipathy towards him was intolerable. Sherlock was moderately sure if he didn’t obtain some sort of mental stimulation in conversation or observation then he’d have to find some other way to deviate himself.

Though John typically did not approve of causing himself undo amounts of pain, and now did not seem the best time to test his limits.

Sherlock’s long fingers toyed with the dial of the silver pocket watch in his fist but kept his eyes on the back of John’s head as they walked. Too much nervous energy was making him jittery, and no outlet for it left him feeling anxious and, if he admitted it to himself, slightly ill. John was supposed to be the stable one of the two of them. Up until this point he'd proved as such, but now it would seem that he too was being strongly affected. He could tell an emotional pitfall had been breached but not how to mend it. That was John's area.

Except John was now the one needing to be fixed and Sherlock had no idea as to go about being consoling.

The following few hours of travel prolonged with resolute silence despite the few attempts on Sherlock's part to break it. The more persistent he attempted to be regarding John's state, the worse it became, and so he let the matter drop. Nearing the limits of the settlement, however, lead to that silence becoming a necessity. 

They crouched low to hide as one of  _them_ sauntered loudly out of the bracket, crushing dried twigs and kicking stones with heavy feet. It wouldn't take long for it to sniff the two of them out, as experience would indicate, but for now it seemed preoccupied rooting around a tree with low-hanging branches. 

"Has it found a rabbit or something?" John whispered. "We might be able to sneak around it."

"It would be better to just kill it now, so it doesn't find us later. One less to worry about."

"Thirteen shots, Sherlock."

Sherlock worried his lip and looked about them. There weren't really any sizable rocks to use as a bludgeoning tool, nor particularly sturdy branches. As John had mentioned before, their lack of weapons was disconcerting. 

The turned woman fell to her knees in the dirt, reaching out with bony fingers and bloodied nails towards something just beyond her reach. Getting away now while it was engrossed might indeed be their best option. 

Both slowly began to inch away from the scene, careful of drawing attention with their movement. Then the woman suddenly snarled and pitched forwards, tearing her face and hands in the bramble that held her at bay. They stilled and listened to her frenetic thrashing but she remained oblivious to their presence. That was fortunate.

The ferocity in which she pursued her prey was interesting. As was the state of her infected body; black-red feet bloodied from walking and being dragged, hollowed eyes from lack of rest, emaciated from the rate of which her body consumed energy. She was absolutely fascinating. What Sherlock would give to be able to understand how she managed to keep upright, let alone the ability to attack.

He could tell countless other things about her: who she was before based of the brand of her clothes and the way she had kept her hair; the jewellery around her neck and wrists, now corroded and stained. But none of it was nearly as remarkable as the person herself. How he longed to be able to flay her open back at his labs. A fresh specimen would have been perfect.

He was so caught up in his observations that he almost didn’t register the quiet whine and wail that followed the woman’s clawing.

And the crack of the Browning was completely unexpected. The woman’s skull exploded, painting the green grotesquely red. The cry of the prey, still in hiding, was far more audible without her.

“What was that about thirteen shots?”

John faced him with a scowl. “Timing,” he hissed. “That’s not an animal.”

They approached the site of the attack, wary of the corpse at their feet, and waited. The crying tapered off into stifled sniffs, barely hidden. No, this was very much not an animal.

“John—“

“I know.” He crouched low to peer into brush, and spoke softly to the creature waiting within.  “Hello. We’re not going to hurt you. Will you come out?”                                                                                                   

Silence. Then, quietly, the voice of a child spoke out. "Are you going to eat me?"

 

 

**Chapter Art:**

****

[by me.](http://garrulousgibberish.tumblr.com/post/78413513294/rats-in-the-system-quotes-first-set)


	3. The Forest of Hands and Teeth

"Are you going to eat me?"

It was a legitimate question, though the ones that would do such a thing would be beyond reply. John smiled tiredly, in a way that his eyes creased in the corners and made his whole face seem gentler and less severe.

A smile. That was good. He couldn't even recall the last he'd seen John smile.

"No. We won't hurt you. We can help." He crouched lower. "My name is John. Can you tell me yours?"

Wary, but slowly growing more trusting of John's presence, the child stepped forward. Her tawny-coloured hair was a knotted mess that was tugged and strained by the thorny branches, and her clothes were torn and caked with mud (splash pattern would indicate she fell into a puddle, not the river, and that she'd made and attempt to clean away some of the muck but was largely unsuccessful). Likewise her shoes were scuffed and discoloured, but her hands were astoundingly clean. Not even dirt under the nails, which were cut (no, bitten) short.

A compulsive tendency about the cleanliness of her hands, but nothing else. Interesting.

"Annette. My name's Annette, though Da calls me Skip." She looked at John, to whom she returned a small smile, but did not take his outstretched hand. She kept her fists close to her chest.

"Well, that's a lovely name, Annette. What are you doing out here yourself?"

"Where is your dog?" Sherlock interjected. The parents were probably dead or turned by this point. Not hardly as interesting as what happened to the dog. Or the older sibling.

Annette started. "H-how do you know about Ghost?"

It was hardly a difficult inference, but it felt good to be able to draw it, nevertheless. "The brush in your back pocket, white fur, not hair, too coarse, as well as the rope burns around your right wrist where you held the leash—poor judgement, that, seeing as it is a larger dog and thus likely to break your wrist with a harsh enough tug. You don't have the leash now, which suggests that either the dog tugged free or you tied it up somewhere. If it had pulled free then it would make sense that you were looking for it; however, I don't believe that is the case. So you tied it up. And then you were cornered here."

The child's mouth was agape with awe, but then twisted in indignation. A familiar reaction.

"It wasn't dumb! My sis was supposed to be right back, but she didn't. So that means I am on my own with Ghost. But Ghost is too loud too big to bring with me everywhere so I told him to stay. I just got surprised."

"So your sister was doing what, exactly? Gathering supplies? But someplace that she didn't feel comfortable to bring you into, which suggests a precarious environment. Infested with those that have turned, I presume. Perhaps that town we were headed towards before stumbling into you." He looked into her soft, watery eyes. "She's probably not coming back."

" _Sherlock!"_ John chastised. "Enough. There's no need to be cruel."

Sherlock frowned at him. "I am not saying anything aside from the obvious. She said as much herself. I am hardly being malicious."

The doctor muttered something about empathy that Sherlock pretended not to hear.

Annette looked between the two of them with the stubborn set of her jaw, still fuming over Sherlock's appraisal. "I don't need your help. You're rude and talk too much. You'll only bring them closer. They always go after the loud ones."

John's lips turned up slyly while Sherlock frowned.

"Because you were faring so well before we came along," he snipped. Annoying child. But credit must be given to the enjoyment John had taken in finding her. It was doing him good to interact with someone else, as incompetent as they may be.

"He does talk a bit much, doesn't he?"

Annette nodded. "Is he sick in the head? There was a girl in my class like that. Couldn't keep anything inside her mouth."

"No, nothing like that. He just likes to hear his own voice." John shot him a challenging look when he opened his mouth. He promptly snapped it shut again. "Annette, do you think you could help us? We've been without food for a few days now, and we're lost. Do you think you could help us get to the town we saw on the way here? We could really use it."

'It's not safe to go back there. Those things took everyone who went back there. That's where Sammy went."

John frowned, but they hardly had a choice. But any knowledge that girl held of the area might increase their chances of getting out alive. And they had the added benefit of not being able to be contaminated themselves, though the girl did not share in that luxury.

"It might be a bit tricky, but it would still be better option than braving the elements out here." He looked to the looming thunderclouds overhead. "It will start raining within the hour. We should get moving. And don't worry, we're not helpless. We can take care of ourselves—and you." He smiled again. "We wouldn't want you to be stranded out here on your own.

She looked uncertain. "I—I suppose."

"It's your decision. We won't make you."

"Ghost has to come with us, though. I won't leave him behind."

"Of course. Do you remember where you left him?" She nodded. "Then let's go find him, shall we?"

* * *

"The dog has been bit."

Annette ran the red hand brush through the animal's white fur, tugging against matted strands.

"I know. But I wrapped it best I could. He's been doing fine since then. Though it's been hard to get him to eat."

Sherlock rocked on his heels as he peered at the bandage that John was unwrapping. The wound was very slowly healing, considering it wasn't fresh. But even as it had happened just a few hours prior, there should have been more clotting than this. And the skin surrounding the wound was a purple-red color. Infection. Was the animal infected with the virus? If so, how was it not dead? Not turned? Can animals even become turned?

"How long ago was it bit?"

" _He_  was bit yesterday before my sister left. I didn't want him to ruin his leg, so that's why I left him earlier."

"Yesterday?" John's own face twisted as he regarded the bite; the lack of clotting, but he didn't interrupt Sherlock's query. "Fascinating. But besides the loss of appetite, there has been no noticeable effect? Disorientation? Increased temperature? What about aggressiveness?"

"Ghost is never mean. Not to me, anyways. But he's a good protector. I don't think the turned ones like going after animals as much, anyways."

"But they obviously still do, or else it would not have been bitten."

"I guess," Annette murmured.

"Wonderful. Something to look into."

John sent him a sidelong glance. "What are you thinking about?"

"I didn't have much time at The Compound to study the specifics of the virus in other forms. I wasn't even aware that animals could be sensed by the turned, let alone attacked. And now this—the dog has been brought into contact with it. Do they have a natural immunity to the virus? Or is it still infected?"

Annette looked stricken. "Is Ghost okay? He can't turn like them, right?"

"That's what we're going to find out, though the lack of response thus far would suggest not."

"I'm not sure I trust you," Annette said, hugging Ghost to her tightly. "How do I know you're a good person? There are worse people than the turned ones. I know that."

Sherlock's lips thinned but he gave no reply. The doctor glanced over his shoulder from where he was still checking the dog's wrappings.

"Aren't you going to say anything?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Why should I? While I am hardly the worst sort to be around, it is not wrong of her to be suspicious." He sniffed. "My fault in her is for not accusing you, as well."

"We're not dangerous!" he admonished. To Annette, "We're not."

"We are," Sherlock corrected.

"You're just being contradictory."

Fed up, Sherlock whirled around to face Annette directly. The child flinched backwards but held his eyes with her own. "It is best to put one's trust in a truthful man than a dishonest. We are dangerous, and that keeps us safe. But we are not malicious, which is what John means. We are not dangerous to you."

Annette paused to take this in. "I—I understand. And I guess I can believe you," she said to John, and then to Sherlock, "so I guess that means I can trust you too, if he does."

Sherlock ground the heel of his shaking hand into the bridge of his nose. "You have missed the point  _entirely_ , child. Form your own conclusions!"

John shook his head as he rose from the wounded animal that immediately bounded up to its owner's height and wedged between her and Sherlock.

"I think she has better sense of judgment than you do, to be honest." Annette shyly grinned from behind Ghost's white head. "We don't have much time left before the brunt off this rain is on us. Annette, do you have many of these plasters left? Good. When we get someplace safe, Sherlock, I need to check over  _your_  injuries. They weren't meant to be worn for days on end."

The detective raised his right hand to examine the dingy wrapping he adorned to cover his bite. He was tempted to remove the irritation now, but that would just make John cross. He opted to ignore it.

"Fine."

"Fine. Then Annette, please lead the way. We'll be right behind you."

* * *

It took a little over half an hour to reach the town.

Annette tilted her head that rested on her arms. Her small body barely cleared the small wall's height. Ghost sat quietly at her heels with its ears tilted attentively. "Are you sure there's nothing wrong with your head?" she asked Sherlock.

He was standing still in the skip between two small houses; one of which John was searching from the inside. The houses provided limited protection from the bitter rain as well as the turned, though not enough in either case.

His eyes were on the street where  _they_  wallowed around, whimpering and growling and dragging their bloody heels through the sludge. One turned its head when another fell, but then ignored it. Two bumped into one another, but no aggressive reaction. They moved on. Interesting. And the rain seemed to be masking his and Annette's scents to a degree and allowing them cover. Small conveniences.

But that did not completely exclude their sense of hearing.

"It would not be wise to raise your voice if not necessary," he whispered. The rain was making his hands quake as it noticeably dropped the temperature. The girl seemed unaffected by the cold despite being soaked through places in her dress.

"You didn't answer my question."

"Observant."

She puffed out her cheeks. "Your hair is too long," she insulted pitifully.

He cast her a withered look over his upturned coat collar. He was sorely missing his scarf. "You have to do better." One of the turned tilted its head in their direction. Sherlock pressed himself tightly against the house's siding, and Annette ducked behind the small wall. With no noise or movements to differentiate between living and inanimate, it lost interest and continued on.

"Are we going to leave soon? It's going to get really dark and I don't want to be out here with them. It's not safe."

"Not much longer now. We'd need to gather as many supplies as possible while we can. There is no guarantee we can stay here." But he was getting anxious, as well. John was taking a while going through the house. The silver pocket watch that Sherlock had lifted ticked in his palm and against his chest. Another minute more and he would go in. It shouldn't be taking this long.

"I just…" Annette muttered. He could barely hear her over the flow of rain. "I just don't want you both to go away like Sammy did. And if you're sick in the head, or—or if you're just sick, then you might leave." She rubbed her face on her arm, still carefully avoiding soiling her hands. "Do you think we might find Sammy?"

Tick. Tick.

"I cannot predict as such without all the facts." He clicked the watch shut and placed it in his pocket. John's time was running short. "We have other things to worry about right now. We can speculate when it's safe."

Slinking against the damp wall, Sherlock made his way over to Annette and Ghost, moving slowly so as not to draw any unwanted attention. One of the turned stumbled through a puddle at the entrance of the alley, and the extra noise caused by the water drew blood-shot eyes in their direction. Enough gathering. They needed shelter.

"I don't like this at all," Annette keened. "Can we please leave? It's wet. And I'm scared."

"Yes, as soon as I get John," Sherlock said. He looked to the alley's mouth where the one had fallen, but it had not fully righted itself. Would it be safe to leave the girl? Or would it be better to take her with him inside? He knew what was out here. He knew not, inside.

"I am going to retrieve John. Would you rather wait here or come with me?"

Annette worried her lip. "Which is safer?"

"I don't know."

"Oh." The dog, sensing her distress, nudged her hip with its head. "Then I guess I'll stay here with Ghost. You will be coming back for me, right?"

Possibly. "Stay low. I'll be quick."

As quietly as he could, he slipped open the chain link gate further down the alley and stepped into the house's yellowing yard. John's steps were clear enough from where the wet grass was pressed flat, but they only ran in the direction of the house. He had not tried to come back, so he must still be inside. Sherlock held his back to the grey siding of the house and crept up to the closed back door. By holding his ear to the slick wood he tried to hear any noise from the other side, but there was nothing. If one of them was inside, they would surely make more noise. John would be silent.

He opened the door.

He was immediately faced with the barrel of a gun. It didn't fire.

"You hesitated," Sherlock noted casually.

John scowled. "Jesus, Sherlock! What the hell are you doing here? You're supposed to be watching the street."

"Yes, well, the blocked street will only become more perilous if we do not find shelter soon; before it becomes completely dark." John lowered his weapon to take in the dark sky, and Sherlock gave him a disapproving frown. "I should have a bullet in my brain right now. What if I had been one of them? You very well could be dead."

"A 'thanks for not shooting me in the face, John. Really appreciated,' would have sufficed, you know." He shrugged more securely into his backpack strap. Heavy. That was good, at least. He'd managed to find plenty of supplies.

"It would be wrong to encourage behaviour that would get you killed," Sherlock chided.

John huffed in frustration. "Hey, it saved your life, didn't it?"

"That is beside the point."

"I really don't think it is."

"We've had this discussion before, John. You can't die. You hold the cure. Any scientist with a semblance of intelligence can recreate it. So you must stay alive. If that means killing me, I expect you to do it."

"Yes, well, I rather think your brains would serve the world better if they stay in your head, so I'm not going to apologize for not shooting you in the face. Even if I really want to."

"Apologize?"

"Shoot you in the face."

Sherlock wanted to argue his point further, but a violent shiver wracked his body and made his jaw clamp tight.

John huffed in disapproval. "Let's not argue about this now, alright? It's getting dark and you look half dead already. I've been through this house and it seals up tight, so I'll grab Annette and we'll stay here until morning."

"It's safe?"

"More so than out here, at any rate. We'll keep watches like we always do, and then leave as soon as daybreaks."

 _And go where?_  Sherlock wanted to counter, but he kept it to himself. His body was aching from the cold, and it was making his mind sluggish. Hatefully so. This argument could wait until they'd settled in. "Fine."

"Good. Here, take this." John slid off the backpack from his shoulder. "I've gotten all we need and a few things I thought we might be able to use. See if there's anything not in here you could otherwise think of."

Sherlock took a brief glance inside. "Did you find any other weapons?"

John sighed and shook his head. "No. No I didn't." He looked at his Browning. "Twelve shots," he said, and then turned to find the girl. Sherlock zipped the bag tightly closed and stalked inside.

* * *

The house locked up well, for the most part, but the biggest worry was the large sliding glass door that lead to the back patio. No curtains or rails to hang blankets. Luckily, the boarded fence was a good six feet high and on level ground which made it difficult to see inside. Still, it was in their best interest not to have any lights that might draw  _them_  close.

Annette and Ghost fell nearly instantly asleep in a spare room down the hall. John volunteered to take first watch and insisted Sherlock try to sleep, but the detective ignored him in favour of scouting out the garage. There was a car there with more than half a tank of gas. They could use it to leave this town. If they found more gas, it could take them wherever they needed to go. If they could decide where that was.

Upon leaving the garage he also lifted a tall, worn shovel leaning against an exercise machine. The blade wasn't very sharp, but it might have its use. He held on to it and went to find John.

"You should be sleeping," John chastised when he entered the common area. "Get some rest; you look like death warmed over."

"Boring. And unproductive. I've looked around, and there's a car in the garage. Half a tank and good tires. It might even make us back to London."

John huffed. "London? Why on Earth would we go back there?"

"Labs, John. I need their labs. Not to mention it does well to suppose that there would be people left there; survivors that didn't leave."

"Who in their right minds would stay there? The virus was spreading so quickly when we left. It would have been suicide to stay."

"Perhaps then, but we know nothing of the situation now. It could have wiped everyone out, and people could have come back."

"Or it could still be completely overrun."

"It is a possibility."

"I don't think that's a wise decision, Sherlock. Until we know more, we could be walking right into the epicentre of one of the biggest outbreaks."

"At least it's a  _plan_ , John. What else do you suppose we do? Just wander about until the last of the human population is wiped out? We need to make this cure as soon as possible, not whenever it doesn't endanger us."

"Without us, there will be no cure, so our safety is actually incredibly important."

"We've been in dangerous positions before. We thrive in them. Why would that change?"

"Maybe I've come to realize our mortality in these past months. And there's Annette. We can't just leave her here."

"We can and we will. She is not our responsibility, nor can she become our liability."

"I will not leave her here to die in the streets. She's a child. I won't abandon her."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed in on John's reddening face. "Your bleeding heart will get us killed."

"My bleeding heart is trying to keep us all alive!" he hissed.

"You can't save everyone. Haven't you learned that by now?"

John looked as if he was about to strike him, and Sherlock instinctually flinched back. "I can at least  _try_." He looked away, composing himself. Then quietly he asked, "Sherlock, what about when there's no one left to save? What if things get too bad to possibly get any better? I can't just stop trying to make it better. But I can't do it alone."

"That's why we need to get this cure finished as soon as we can. You're not doing anything alone."

John glared. "Are you sure about that? What about if London is still completely overrun? What if we  _can't_  make the cure, for whatever reason? What then?" He scowled. "Do you stop trying? Twice now, Sherlock, you've convinced me you were going to kill yourself. When I saw you point that gun to your head, I thought,  _why?_  Why now, when we finally have something to live for would you suddenly decide it wasn't worth it?"

"But I'd been bitten! You know as well as I do that it is better to swallow a bullet than become one of them. We can't let that happen."

"I didn't know! You didn't tell me you'd been bit. You just went off by yourself, and what if you hadn't come back? You didn't tell me, and I wouldn't have known. I couldn't even fathom why you would leave me alone like that, by choice."

"I wouldn't, John. You should know me better than that. Suicide is only a last resort if you get bit."

Sherlock knew what was coming next.

"It wasn't the same when I was bit, was it? Depression doesn't work like that. It's not logical." John closed his eyes. "What do you live for, Sherlock? Is it for the puzzle? What about once the cure is complete? Are you going to see through its distribution? The world has been changed. Our old life isn't there waiting for us anymore."

"We can find a different—"

_Criiiiiiiiick._

They both froze still.

"The kitchen?" Sherlock breathed. "The door was locked; I checked."

John lifted his gun. "Maybe it busted out a window?"

"Without us hearing? Do you really think they're that clever?"

"I don't know, but I'm not going to sit here a try to figure it out. Go find Annette and get to the car. We're leaving."

He honestly wanted her in his care? He was more delusional than Sherlock thought.

"And what exactly to you plan to do? Shoot it? That will alert every one of them to us."

"Do you have a better plan?"

"Yes," he assured and hoisted the shovel off the ground. Before John could try to protest any further he strode on towards the dark kitchen. He heard John curse his name and then the doctor's footsteps as he retreated to the spare room.

Sherlock kept his footfalls quiet as he entered into the unlit kitchen. Immediately his gaze fell to the closed door. The room was relatively small, and with no crevices to hide in. But that didn't discount the idea that perhaps the intruder was not one of  _them_  to begin with, but a scavenger. One that had learned to pick the lock and snuck inside.

He stepped closer to the door and peered out the small window. All he could see outside was the dark lawn and the fence, but he couldn't see where it wrapped around the house and led to the alley. He looked down. The door was unlocked. Someone human had opened it and then shut it again.

Silently he opened the door and, limited as his sight was, investigated the lock. Or he would have, had there been a lock on the outside of the door to do so.

Urgent footsteps vied down the hall, and Sherlock closed his eyes against the blind panic he knew he would see as soon as John entered the kitchen.

"Annette's not in the room," he said.

"I know."

"What do you bloody mean  _you know?_ " he urged. He stared openly at Sherlock's face, then knocked past him and out the door. Sherlock grit his teeth and trailed along after.

John frantically cleared the yard, gun held aloft. There were noises coming from the alley. Groans and shuffling. The turned were obviously riled up.

"No. No, no, no…" Sherlock heard John breathe. The soldier rushed the length of fence until it joined the alley.

It didn't take Sherlock more than a second to realize what was going to happen next.

Annette was in the alley; of course she was. And she'd been attacked. Was being attacked. John was going to fire his gun to kill the thing in order to protect the girl that was likely already lost to them. That gun would sound and then  _they_  would be there. More than those already stalking the fence line: drawn by the scuffle.

"John, don't—"

"Annette! God, no, don't let her…no." His hands shook, but to Sherlock's surprise he did not fire. Instead he wrestled with the gate latch, disturbing the turned that sat hunched on the ground. Over the girl's still trembling body.

John had already reached the same conclusion he had. The girl was gone.

Without delay, Sherlock scaled the chain link fence and wielded his shovel high. With as much force as he could muster, he drove the blade down sharply into the neck of the standing turned. The flesh squelched nastily and the metal grated against the bone, rough enough to be felt when Sherlock drew the shovel back.

It fell to the ground and did not move. To be sure, Sherlock dropped down into the alley and plunged the shovel back into its skull. Nothing. It was well and truly dead.

In the meantime, John had opened the gate and crouched over the girl that lay sprawled in the rain. The little girl with dirty hands marred with teeth marks and serrated flesh, reaching out towards the turned at Sherlock's feet.

She was still alive, but there would be no saving her now. They both knew as much. And she was suffering. The pain must have been excruciating.

"We can't leave her like this," John whispered, hands fidgeting at his side. They didn't have the medical supplies to try to save her, and even if they did, she'd been bit. If she survived, she would turn. "The gun?" he opted. The kindest option. Quickest. Painless. But wrong.

"No, it's too loud. And we need to conserve the bullets for when we need them, as you've said more than once."

John gnashed his teeth as his own words were thrown back at him. Sherlock hadn't said it to be cruel. He was right: those bullets could mean the difference between their life and death. They couldn't be squandered.

"What then? Smother her?"

Sherlock shook his head and lifted up the shovel. "No. This way would be quickest."

"Sherlock, no—"

" _Fine_ , then would you like the honours?" he snapped. Enough time had been wasted debating on this girl's death. "While you decide which way is best to kill her, she is going to bleed out on her own. And by then  _they_  will be here and will devour what remains. Is that better? Is that  _kinder?_ "

"Just…" John hung his head. "Don't let her see it coming. Please."

Sherlock gave him a curt nod John did not see and stepped behind them both. Like for the turned, he positioned the blade at the base of her neck, beneath her long hair. John grasped her bloody hand in comfort, and said softly, just barely over the sound of rain, "Not much longer now," and quieter, "thank you."

A sharp, downward plunge and it was over.

The gore ran in red rivers down the shovel blade and tainted the grey road. John with a mask of stone carefully lifted the girl's corpse out of the muck, but blood still seeped into her little dress and the ends of her hair. Her head lolled to the side, and her wide, scared eyes stared right into Sherlock.

He looked down and away to the corpse before him, staring at him with the same wide eyes, bloodshot, undamaged by the blow that severed the spinal cord at the base of the neck. The family resemblance was uncanny.

This corpse, once the girl's sister, was no doubt the reason Annette had come out here to begin with. Seen from the small window in the room, she'd come to retrieve her. Sentiment. And how clever she had been to sneak away from them while they had been distracted by their argument; too oblivious to try to stop her.

The turned were getting closer. They retreated back indoors and neither said a word.

Perhaps it would be best not to mention this to John.

They still had twelve shots.

* * *

John insisted on a small memorial for her. The least they could do, he said, with the little time they had left. Sherlock did not complain, and helped him prepare a small grave in which they lowered her prone form into the ground. John made a small cross from broken fencing while Sherlock began the task of filling the grave.

"We," John whispered, gaze downcast as Sherlock packed in the last of the dirt over Annette's pale body.

"What?"

John lifted his eyes, dark with grief, resolutely to Sherlock's own. "You had said  _we can find a different way_. Do you live for me, then? When I was bit, when we were sure that was the end, you still had the cure to work towards. You still had so much more  _work_  to be done, but you told me that you were going to kill yourself. Despite  _the work_ , you were going to leave." He fisted his hands tightly at his side. "You can't just check out because I'm not there! I'm only human, Sherlock. Mortal like anyone else. And I can't even think about risking our lives if it will ultimately end in getting us both killed. Even if that means only one of us is killed, but the other can't move on."

Sherlock drove the tip of the shovel into the wet ground. "Things are different now, John. I—I apologize for not telling you when I was bit. I had thought it would have been kinder if you'd not have to see. When you were bit, it was like the whole world was suddenly shattering around me. I didn't want you to go through that."

"It would have been so much worse had you done it and I hadn't known. Believe me when I say it would have been exactly the same. You mean just as much to me, Sherlock, as I do to you."

Sherlock bowed his head against the rain, staring at the pallor of his own hand against the dark of his coat. His hand was trembling, and he couldn't deceive himself into believing it was due to the cold. "You're stronger than I am, John."

He shook his head. "I'm really not."

The soldier nodded solemnly at the makeshift grave, then turned and headed back towards the house. They would take the car in the garage and leave the town. No sense in wasting any more time.

Sherlock lifted the shovel out of the loose dirt. As soon as he moved away from the grave, Ghost, slow and lumbering, came and sniffed at the mound. When Sherlock walked away, the dog remained, lying atop the dirt, continuing to protect the deceased child. Would it leave when the hunger became too much? Or would it die here, unable to complete its obligation? A penance?

Sherlock's palm throbbed painfully with his own slow heart and he shadowed John to the garage where the doctor had already loaded the packs and Sherlock tentatively placed the shovel.

In the car, Sherlock slipped low into the cheap leather seat and buried his hands in his pockets to hide their quaking. He discerned how John's hands remained steady, if white-knuckled, against the steering wheel as he turned them away and down the broken gravel road.

 

**Chapter Art:**

****

 

[by bottlebee](http://bottlebee.tumblr.com/post/76415182075/a-board-for-garrulousgibberishs-fantastic-zombie)

 

[by me](http://garrulousgibberish.tumblr.com/post/78413513294/rats-in-the-system-quotes-first-set)


	4. The Remaining

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been about five months since the last post. D: That makes me very sad. It was nice to be able to write again.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has been so supportive while I was gone from this. Your enthusiasm helped immensely in bringing me back to this!

The storm did not cease for the length of time they spent on the road. The rain pattered against the windows and bled together the grey world outside. Not that there was anything to look at, in any case. Sherlock remained slumped low in his seat, wrapped in both his coat and the silence. The hateful silence that had been suffocating them and yet neither had managed to break. They drove for ages with no sense of direction. A new road appeared, they took it. Leading anywhere. Leading nowhere.

When they stopped, the clock on the dash read 7:46 and John's eyes were closing of their own volition. The car rolled to a stop beside some sort of park and Sherlock stretched out his long limbs from where he'd kept them close to his torso. Despite not having expended much energy through the passing day, his body felt as if he'd taken on an army. His hand was throbbing the worst of all the aches, and the old bandage that they had neglected to change due to the arisen circumstances was chafing and irritating. It should probably be looked at. John would want to do it, but he was going to pass out any moment now. It couldn't be that difficult, so Sherlock decided he'd take care of it on his own when the other fell asleep.

"I don't think I can drive any more today. Can you take over?" John asked, slipping out of the safety belt. His arm sagged heavily against the wheel as he tried to rub away the weariness from his eyes.

"It's not like we are in a rush to get to nowhere," Sherlock said. Quickly he added, "We can stop here for a while. It's safe inside the car, and we haven't seen  _them_  for a while now. You rest, and I'll keep watch."

John frowned. "Night's going to be here soon. The car's not exactly the best place to stay."

"It's better than we've had before. The turned couldn't smash these windows with their fists, and even if they did find us, we could easily just drive away. For now, this solution is fine."

John didn't dispute it, for which Sherlock was pleased. He'd had enough wandering in circles.

"Alright, fair enough." He turned the key and cut the engine. "Then I'll close my eyes for now. But just for an hour or so, okay? The last time I saw you sleep was days ago. You need the rest as much if not more than I do." The lines around his mouth and brow deepened. "Are you sure you don't want to sleep first?"

"I'm not the one falling asleep at the wheel."

"No, but—"

"I'm  _fine_ ," Sherlock said in a clipped tone. "An hour or so and then I'll wake you. I'll sleep then."

"If you're sure."

"I am."

John huffed and opened the car door. Sherlock heard him mutter something incomprehensible before the door slammed close and John made his way to the back. When he'd gotten himself settled into the back seat and the movements stopped, he sighed. After several long moments, Sherlock felt secure that he'd at least fallen into a light sleep. He set to removing the annoyance binding his hand.

When the final layer of wrapping was undone, keeping silent any noises caused by doing so, Sherlock stared at the wound with no small amount of horror. While the bite had stopped the worst of its bleeding, it still oozed a black-purple type of rancid pus. He used the corner of the gauze to try to remove some of it, but the rough material felt like a jagged blade against the tormented flesh. This time he was unsuccessful in stifling his pained exhale.

More gently, he prodded the distended purple vein that ran down the centre of the back of his hand. It felt thick beneath his skin. The same way it felt when he'd felt the veins of the dog's bitten leg. Was it the same? If it was, the same questions arose as they did then.

And they didn't have the means to answer any of them.

Not knowing what that could mean in this situation was more than concerning.

John snuffled and shifted behind him, perhaps disturbed by the smell, so Sherlock hastily rewrapped the bandage. Their supplies including the additional medical aid was in the black bags in the boot of the vehicle. He'd thought that perhaps he could retrieve them after John had fallen asleep but it would seem that he was sleeping too lightly to try to risk it. If something was wrong with the wound, John would worry. And worrying wouldn't do them any favours if they had no means to fix it.

Then again, John would most likely be very cross when he did find out about it. Angry at Sherlock for hiding it and then angry at himself for not being able to help. In either case, it was best if John was in a tolerable state until Sherlock found a way to somehow resolve it.

He slumped back in his seat at stared at the playground through the windshield: a swing set, a sandbox, a merry-go-round, climbing bars. The paint had begun to peel and fade, from what he could tell in the dimming light, though the degree of wear would imply that the upkeep of the park had already deteriorated prior to the outbreak. Tiny, muddy footprints lingered as eerie reminders of the time before. Of the children that surely met their premature ends somewhere in the not so long ago past.

Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to ignore the thudding of his heart and the harshness of silence around him. Anything. If only there were something he could focus on. Noise from somewhere other than rattling around inside of his skull. The endless questions with no aim or resolution. His mind kept working as tirelessly as ever while his body felt as if it was slowly drowning under the weight of it all. He clasped his hands together to still their anxious fiddling then kept that position for a while more. Until when the numbers on the console telling the time had all changed and the darkness had consumed all of the world around them.

John was still asleep. He could bear to sleep a little longer, but it was already longer than Sherlock had said he would wake him for. Best not let him go on for much longer. Sherlock reached across the dash to press at the dials. Maybe there was a CD or something that he could use to fill the silence. Or the radio, though it would only repeat the same message they'd heard a thousand times before. Still, he turned the dial and the station displayed. Soft static. He configured the setting to one of the pre-sets he recalled from The Compound, and the soft but garbled broadcast flitted in through the static.

"… _state of emergency…_ _ **please contact**_ _…warning all civilians…_ _ **there are others here, we can**_ _…in the infected areas…_ _ **overrun but possible to**_ _..."_

Sherlock listened attentively but nothing followed after the first deviations. Whatever had been interfering with the signal had stopped. It wasn't on a loop, then? Was there someone commanding the disturbance?

"That was different," John said with a sleep-heavy voice.

Sherlock peered over his shoulder at him. "Yes."

"Do you think it means anything?"

"I'm not sure yet."

John nodded, then stared intently at the lit up dash. "You let me sleep longer, didn't you?"

Sherlock shrugged. "You needed it. And we were safe. There was no reason not to."

John took a curt inhale to show his displeasure. "Right, enough of that. It's not  _kinder_  to martyr yourself for me. Wake me up when we agreed on a time. Hold to it. We both need the rest and you trying to slowly kill yourself does  _not_  help."

Now was not the time to be raising their voices despite how much Sherlock desperately wanted to. They had been unnoticed up until this point. It would be better to keep it that way.

"Will you ever stop being angry with me?" Sherlock said quietly, staring back toward the windshield.  _"_ _That's_  not helping, either."

The doctor sighed. "I know," he admitted. "But please, knowing you're all right helps more than anything else. And knowing I can trust you to take care of yourself when you need to eases a lot off my mind."

Sherlock shot him a glare. "I survived before you came along, John, as much as you care to forget. I am not completely inept," he sneered.

"Yeah, well, you do well at having me forget that bit. It's nice when you prove me wrong." He tried to smile, but the pinched muscles didn't seem to want to work correctly and it ended up somewhat more like a grimace. It was, in fact. "What is that smell?"

Sherlock's heart pulsed hard. "I think there's some human remains on my shoes from the alley," he lied. "By the time I noticed the smell it was already dark. I didn't want to risk the smell of it outside drawing  _them_  to us."

"God that's horrible," John balked. "As soon as we can we need to get that off. Do you think we should move for the night?"

"No. I think we can make it until morning. We seem to have found a decently reclusive area and moving at night has never served well."

"Yeah. Someone or something might see the lights. If that's the case, then now it's time for you to sleep. Three hours, since that's the time you gave me, and I'll wake you. Please,  _try_  to sleep."

"If you'll stop complaining, I shall do so," Sherlock acquiesced. He leaned to the side so John could clamour over the median to reach the front seat. When John was quietly sat behind the wheel, Sherlock tilted his seat back and pretended to relax. He'd tell John about the bite soon, he told himself. Perhaps tomorrow.

He slanted open one eye to watch John scrutinizing his Browning; compulsively checking and rechecking the bullets in the clip. Somewhere along the line all of the lights turned black and he fell uneasily into sleep.

* * *

They changed shift twice that night, and in the early morning they left the park to continue down the road they had been following. It was a blessing that they hadn't had any problems in the night. Both of them had been in dire need of some rest, though in the pale morning light John wasn't entirely convinced that Sherlock was faring any better.

"Sherlock, how does the cut on your face feel?"

"Unnoticeable," he murmured, flipping up his collar and adjusting his seat upright.

"Hey, don't do that. I mean it—" He reached across to pull back the upturned collar and expose the purple-green mark. "It doesn't look like it's healing properly. The bruising should have started fading by now."

"Maybe you punched harder than you thought," Sherlock said, shrugging away from John's hand.

John felt a twinge of fear and guilt. "Something might be broken."

Sherlock prodded the purple mark on his cheek. "The pain in negligible. Doubtful that anything is broken. In either case, there is nothing to be done about it at present."

"What about your hand? How is that feeling? I see you've changed the bandage."

"Fine."

"You're sure?"

"I know how to change a bandage, John. In either case, we have other things to worry about."

John sat back in his seat. "Like?"

"The fact that we're quickly going to lose our mode of transportation if we don't have a fuel source," Sherlock said, indicating the gauge on the dash.

John nodded. "I had, in fact, noticed that much."

"Then the question is whether to find fuel or abandon the vehicle."

"It's been a good source of protection, if nothing else. And it makes it easier to carry supplies than on our backs." John worried his lip as he stared out the windshield. The car was also necessary should they decide on somewhere to go. You can only get so far on foot. With their limited rations they wouldn't be able to travel far without collapsing. "We should try to keep it," he decided.

"Then I suppose we know where to go next."

* * *

The petrol station appeared as though it had fallen to disrepair early on by the state of growth on the outer walls. When they pulled to a stop, Sherlock stepped out of the car and opened the back in order to remove the black backpack.

"I'm going to see if there's anything worth taking. Perhaps a petrol can, tubing, or provisions, if they haven't all been taken," he said, already making his way inside.

John turned to survey the parking lot, not entirely vacant. A silver truck was on the far right hand side of the lot; the windows had been busted out and the back right tire slashed open. Another of the tired had been lifted off. Worth checking before they left, but it was most likely already scavenged. Maybe they could prise another tire off, though, for precaution's sake. He'd yet to see if their own vehicle had a spare in the boot. On the other side of the lot was some sort of construction site where the building had once been trying to expand.

John cautiously stepped over the exposed framework to get a better look. Tarps ripped from the wind fluttered like wraiths in a draft. Discarded planks littered the laid cement and about those were various, forgotten working tools.

_BAM!_

As reflex John immediately ducked low and went to draw his Browning that was not there. The metal crate he was hidden behind was only just taller than his crouched body. Whatever had made the noise had quieted but instinct told John it was still lingering. His heart pounded steady in his ears. Slowly, so as not to draw attention to himself, he peered over the crate.

On just the other side was a turned: a girl with hair pulled back but mostly now falling out of the tie. Her glassy green eyes darted back and forth over the place John hid but never landed on him. Why wasn't it attacking him? Surely it saw him, or at the very least smelled him. Yet nothing. It gave no indication of noticing his presence. And, apparently satisfied with its perusal, now turned away from him entirely to head towards the swinging open door. Quickly looking around him, he reached for the first hand tool he could reach: a rusted hammer.

The turned lumbered inside, dragging its heels but not otherwise making much of a sound. On the other hand, he could hear Sherlock on the inside rustling through the shelves for supplies. It wasn't loud, but the turned obviously could hear it and was drawn to it.

The hallway through which it entered was narrow but short. To get the blow to the head he wanted he'd need more space to swing. The turned stood still and for a moment John feared she'd noticed his presence; she sniffed the air and her whole head swung back towards Sherlock, once again baring her back to John completely. Why? There was no reason that it shouldn't have noticed him. John thought that perhaps it was the meat on Sherlock's shoes he'd not had time to remove, but it was always apparent the turned went after anything living as opposed to dead.

She stepped into the open room, head cocked so her chin stuck out at an angle. She looked at all the raided shelving, trying to catch sight of Sherlock amidst the off-white metal and spilled commodities. Nothing caught her eye nor John's.

Then a small sound, a rustle of cloth, whispered towards the back wall along the rows of glass doors. The turned shuffled forwards and John hoisted his weapon. He'd have to make this as smooth as possible. Knocking it back wouldn't stop her, and he couldn't give her the opportunity to get a hold of him, immune or not. They inched closer and John calculated the best angle. Temporal lobe, if he could reach around to it. If he could just get its attention so it'd face him he'd have a clear—albeit risky—shot.

There were no sounds driving her forwards now. Sherlock had gone completely silent. Did he hear them enter? Hopefully he wouldn't call out or make any other noises just yet. Just a few seconds more. Just—

John followed the turned around the corner of a shelf, just enough of a bend that her head swung to the left to keep in her sights where she presumed Sherlock to be. And yes, Sherlock was still there on the floor, backpack slung over his shoulder and legs tensed to run. The Browning in his hand was aimed directly at her forehead and ready to fire.

He saw John with the hammer prepared to strike and he paused. Just long enough.

John swung the hammer with as much precision and force as he could maintain. Contact was swift, and resonating through the wooden handle he could feel the break and give of bone beneath flesh; shattering beyond and imbedding in the viscous matter below that. Blood slicked his hand and hammer and welled in the gash to run down her face. She choked and keened when her legs failed to move her body onwards. Instead she held out her hand and feebly clawed at the air stretching the distance from herself and Sherlock. Even now, she didn't try to lash at John.

The hammer did not come free cleanly. The squelching noise made John's mouth taste of bile. More blood ran down his hand and made his hold on the hammer slick. He clenched it tight so it wouldn't slip and swung again. The harrowing crack stung his ears. Sherlock didn't flinch or waver. This time she fell limp to the ground.

"You hesitated," John parroted, narrowing his eyes at the Browning in Sherlock's hands.

Sherlock frowned and lowered the weapon. "You seemed to have it taken care of."

"Yeah. Lucky thing it didn't see me," John mused. He ran his slick hands across the material of his trousers. The blood was drying in places; it made his hands feel gummy and disgusting and much too warm.

Sherlock added, "Or smell you."

He stared at the red stain he'd created. "Or that," he agreed.

It was suddenly imperative that he find something to clean his hands with. He looked behind himself at the reception counter and the room at the back. Maybe there was something in there. Sherlock had gone thoughtfully silent so John left him to it and went to investigate the room. He clenched his hands repeatedly, feeling the blood in the grooves of his skin. Something. There had to be something around here. Desk, chair, smashed computer monitor, microwave, rubbish bin, coat rack.

There, hanging on the coat rack. He reached out his soiled hand to grasp the fabric but stayed his action as he came nearer. He stared at the length of fabric: a reddish scarf. Worn a bit thin and stretched out, but a perfectly serviceable one. No reason to ruin it when it could be put to better use.

"Hey Sherlock, come in here."

"What is it?"

"I think I found something you might like."

Sherlock peered into the room and John in the corner. With a shrug of his shoulder John indicated to the hanging scarf. Sherlock strode up next to him and took it into his hands.

"I suppose it was time to replace the last one."

"Figured you might want it."

Sherlock nodded and wrapped it around his neck. A different colour, but it was fitting. He looked a bit more complete. "Thank you, John. Hopefully this one has a less gruesome fate."

John resolutely did not think of the one tied around Lestrade's skull to keep the skull fragments and brain matter from spilling out the back. Just as he did not think of the girl lying out front with the side of her face bashed in and blood spilling on the floor.

He rubbed at the blood coating his palms anxiously. He still needed to get it off.

As he turned to step out the door, Sherlock called over his shoulder, "You may wish to keep hold of that hammer. It seems to be useful."

John swallowed, but replied, "Yeah. But don't think I'm letting you keep my gun." Implied: I am not sure I trust you with it.

A pause. "Duly noted."

 

**Chapter Art:**

[by KotoriK](http://kotorik.deviantart.com/art/Sherlock-Commission-3-for-GG-396125405)

by bottlebee

 

[by me](http://garrulousgibberish.tumblr.com/post/78413513294/rats-in-the-system-quotes-first-set)


	5. Rot and Ruin

The torch swayed unsteadily back and forth in Henry’s hands, bouncing the light off the dark floor but only directly in front of their feet and doing absolutely nothing to help guide them forward. It made Mycroft disoriented. He blinked rapidly to try to adjust his eyes in the darkness and to keep his gaze on the tunnel ahead.

“If you don’t hold that thing steady I will take it from you,” Mycroft warned.

Henry switched the torch to his other hand, but he didn’t raise it much higher. It wasn’t because he was tired or anything of the sort. His wrists kept the beam steady and only flicked the light up occasionally to illuminate the tunnel.

“Sorry,” he said. “I just don’t like it down here. You never know if one of them is hanging around. I don’t want them to sneak up on us unawares.”

“Being able to see would be helpful.”

“They see the light. I know this section of tunnel’s blocked off at the other end but I still don’t want to draw any of _them_ to us if they wandered down here.” Henry stopped. “Look, maybe we shouldn’t be doing this. Why don’t we just wait and I can take you guys up so you can train on a building or something?”

“The others don’t want to train,” Mycroft reminded him.

“Then I’ll just take you.”

Mycroft stopped and took the torch out of the teenager’s hand. “There’s more of them up there than there are down here. Or at least in this area. This is the best place for it. We’ve been down here before and made it back fine.”

“Yeah, yeah. I know. And up there they’d hear and gather around. I just don’t like being cooped up like this. Way too easy to get cornered.”

“Then keep a good watch,” Mycroft told him and aimed the beam directly down their path. “And don’t get caught.” He continued walking. Henry hesitated before falling into step with him.

“Does it feel good to order me around like that?” he scoffed. “I know a lot more about this stuff than you do, mate. My precautions have kept me alive this long.”

“Yes, you are quite adept at saving your own skin, aren’t you?”

Henry rounded in front of him, bristling with all the intimidation of an angry housecat. Mycroft met his green eyes without missing a beat.

“Look, what happened to Al was not my fault. You can’t try to save someone when you know it’s a lost cause. You can’t be responsible for everyone’s lives or you’ll lose your own. It’s different out there. And yet I still bring your group food and blankets and stuff. Don’t try to make me out to be the bad guy here for doing what I need to do.”

“No. You’re a survivor. You made as much clear when you arrived here, those monsters on your heels and blood on your shirt. You do what you have to.”

“At least I was out there fighting and not cowering underground, you sod,” Henry spat.

“Fighting against what? For every one you bring down there’s a hundred more crawling over its corpse.” Mycroft sighed. “You’re quick enough to get by out there, but you have no reason. You’re fighting for nothing other than for fighting’s sake.”

“That’s reason enough,” Henry retorted. “At least I won’t stop fighting. Not until I’m dead in the ground.”

“At this rate that’ll be soon enough.” Mycroft sniffed and pushed the teen aside so he could continue on. “You’d be of more use figuring out a way to stop people from even becoming one of _them_ than you would trying to kill them all off on your own. Eventually, everyone will be dead, whether they were turned or died trying to wait it out.”

Henry still hadn’t moved from where he’d stopped so his voice echoed hollowly when he said, “Everyone I’d had’s already dead.” Mycroft stopped and aimed the torch back at him. “My dad was a dead man when we made it to The Compound. I’d have been, too, waiting around there. At least I’m doing something with my life here. Even if it kills me, I’ve got to fight in the only way I know how.”

“A fool’s errand.”

Henry held his chin up defiantly. “Yeah, maybe. But it’s all I’ve got to be doing. So I’d best be doing it. Otherwise what’s the point of living?”

“There isn’t much, is there?” Mycroft told him. The boy had a strong will, if nothing else. “Just the hope that whatever you’re doing might make a difference.”

Henry nodded and slowly walked back to Mycroft’s side. “That’s what you’re doing, isn’t it? Hoping to make things better in the long run? To make things right again?”

“Things could never be like they were.”

“No, they couldn’t.” The teen paused a moment, lost in thought. “Did you have anyone before all this? Family to find?”

The torch wavered slightly as Mycroft drew a deep breath. “A mother and father. A brother.”

“Oh. Is that why you’re trying to get to The Compound so badly, then? Think maybe they’re there?”

“No,” Mycroft bit. “I hope for nothing of the sort.”

Henry frowned. “I think you’re lying,” he said.

“Think what you’d like.” He turned away from Henry. “I am not going to speculate on their survival or demise.” He’d run the probabilities a million times in his head. He didn’t have enough facts. And to convince himself that any of them were alive only to be proven wrong was unfathomable. Even if it was more likely that he’d never know either way, it was preferable to think this way. Push it out of his mind.

Henry persisted, “But don’t you want to know?”

“I have more important things to be focusing on, at the moment. It can wait.”

There was no more talking after he said this, to which Mycroft was grateful. It wasn’t until they’d reached their destination deep in the belly of the London Underground, blocked off by a derailed train, did anyone say a word. While Mycroft inspected the edges of the blocked tunnel to ensure that nothing could creep through from the other side, Henry set up the makeshift targets on the tracks.

The surprise crack of a gun made Mycroft’s heart leap into his throat.

“And just what are you doing?”

Henry motioned to the carcass by side of the wall. “Jus’ a rat. Scared me, is all.”

Mycroft shook his head and lifted his own weapon out of his waistband. The sooner they started training the sooner he’d get out of this dungeon and away from this child. Not nearly soon enough.

* * *

 The rain thrummed relentlessly for the next day and a half, throughout all of which Sherlock and John wandered aimlessly along deserted back roads. The traffic on those roads was far less dense than in the suburbs during the time of the outbreak, so the blockage of cars didn’t often deter their path. They had no cause to stop until the road they’d been following all of the previous morning came to an abrupt, rocky end.

“Looks like the road’s been washed out by the rain. This car will never make it over that,” John said, squinting over the steering wheel at the mountain that relocated itself directly in their way. “Just great.”

Sherlock lifted his head briefly to look at the obstruction. So this route was just as useless as the rest of them. It was of no interest to him. He dropped his head back against the headrest and closed his eyes. The slight motion was causing his headache to flare. For the past few hours he’d managed to negate the pain by categorizing his mind palace. Now he’d have to crawl his way back into that headspace all over again.

“I suppose we’ll have to try to backtrack. There was a service road a while back we could use. Maybe it’ll lead us back to a road that we can use.” There was a rough indication of movement before Sherlock felt John nudge his shoulder. “Budge over, I want to look at the map.”

“What use is it if you don’t care where you’re headed?” he muttered, refusing to inch over or even open his eyes. “Perhaps we could try the highway.”

“No, I don’t think so. It’s probably jammed with cars and I want to make sure we’re not wandering into some urban trap,” he said, shoulder bumping Sherlock’s nose as he reached into the glove box. Once he had it in hand he sat back heavily in his seat and unfolded it. As noisily as possible.

Sherlock growled in irritation and squinted open his eyes to glare in John’s direction. “What does that matter? At least an urban area will have someplace we could raid supplies from. There’s nothing out here on these paths.”

“Yes, that’s sort of the point,” John sighed, focusing on the intricate lines on the paper. “The urban areas are going to be more clustered, and a higher chance of the turned loitering around. I don’t want to risk it. We’ll find smaller areas as we go. There’s less of a chance we’ll find _them_ around, or anyone else.” His forehead furrowed. “It’s safer that way.”

“It’s less safe if we run out of food or gas before we find anything worthwhile. We need to go where there will actually be something to find.”

“There probably won’t be. If there were a lot of people around at any point it’s likely they cleared out the areas before they left.”

“Unless the turned forced them out before they could do so. Or they were all turned themselves. If _they_ are around no one else will be and anything left behind will be ours. It’s not an outrageous challenge so long as we’re smarter than _they_ are.”

“It’s not about being more clever, Sherlock. It would only take a second to get separated or overpowered or cornered. _They_ can sense us just as well if not better than we can, especially in the dark. It’s not worth it.”

Sherlock leaned his head back against the headrest. “That’s not entirely true. The one in the petrol station, you said it walked right past you?”

John nodded slowly. “Yeah, it was the strangest thing.” Yes, it was strange. Why didn’t it notice him?

“But you said that it looked as if it had smelled me?”

John finally looking away from the map for a moment. “Her eyes looked pretty rough, so she probably didn’t see you. I’m assuming either she heard you or smelled you.”

“Somehow without first finding you. Why didn’t she find you immediately if you were so close? That doesn’t make any sense.”

John shrugged and turned away from him; noisily flipped a leaf in the map, though he didn’t appear to actually be reading it. “Maybe those old films were right. She went after who she thought had the biggest brain.”

Sherlock stared at him in confusion. “Are you trying to be funny?”

“No, Sherlock, I’m not. Just—I don’t care if you think that it’s pointless to try the more rural areas.” He set the map in Sherlock’s lap so that he could reach into the back seat to get a brief look at their packs. “We’re not desperate for supplies right now. We don’t _have_ to take the chance to get more. It’s better to not.” Sherlock saw John’s body still beside him as he got a better look inside Sherlock’s bag. He already knew what was coming next before John sat back and levelled him with an irate glare. “We’ve actually got more supplies than I thought we would at this point. Care to explain that one to me?”

Yes. He’d been growing increasingly nauseous the past few days and the thought of any food had him forcing back the bile in his stomach. He’d eaten a bit, when John was awake. But after it came back up once he didn’t try to ingest any more than strictly necessary to keep himself upright. “I’m not going to eat when I’m not hungry,” Sherlock told him.

“Sherlock, there’s no way you can do this to yourself. Not now. You need to eat and keep up your strength. This food can’t go to waste.”

“I don’t want it. I’m not hungry.”

“You don’t need to ration this badly. We have enough that you don’t have to starve yourself over it. Eat something.” John reached back and plucked a small box of cereal. He then put it in Sherlock’s hand. “Go on, then.”

“I’m not going to eat this, John. If you’re hungry then eat it yourself.”

“Stop it, Sherlock.” His expression was turning dark. He pointed to the box. “I’m not the one who can hardly hold his head up. You’re probably feeling like such shit because you’re starving yourself to death, you bloody ponce. You’re not doing anyone any favours like this.”

“I’m doing us both a favour in not wasting supplies if they’re not necessary.” Sherlock wished he’d stop pressing. He wasn’t ready to deal with the fallout of John becoming privy to his declining state any more than he already was. They didn’t need the extra strain to worry about right now.

“I think you just like me mothering you. As if I don’t already give you all my attention, let me devote my every thought to your wellbeing, shall I?”

Actually if John would focus on him a bit _less_ that would be ideal.

“You’re being ridiculous.”

“No, what is ridiculous, Sherlock, is that you can’t be bothered to bloody _feed yourself_ and it falls on to me to keep you alive because you can’t be _arsed_ to do it for yourself. What else have you got going on in that thick head of yours that you’re so involved in that you can’t accomplish this simple task, hm? You have no cases to solve, no people to deduce, no cure to create, nothing. There’s absolutely noth—“

Sherlock, eyes wide and surprised, reached across the seat median to try to grasp John’s arm and calm him down but John knocked his hand away. The wound on his hand smarted, but the flinch was masked by John’s anger.

“John, I understand your worry but there no reason—“

“I have every fucking reason, Sherlock! Don’t you dare tell me not to be upset by this when it’s _your_ fault that we’re in this situation to begin with.”

Sherlock scowled back at John’s thunderous expression. “It is not my fault that we’re here. I didn’t start this.” He gestured outside the window, to all of it.

“No, but you are the reason we’re here, out on the road and not in our dorm back at The Compound.”

“It was Moriarty that made those stupid people—“

“No, it was _that_ attitude that made them turn against us! Moriarty didn’t have to do much at all after all the damage _you’d_ done. They were just looking for a reason to throw you out.”

“Then good riddance to them!” Sherlock shouted. “We don’t need them and their narrow little minds—“

“I did!” John thundered. “I needed them—someone to talk to and converse with and to make me feel a little more human. Not _this_.” He gestured to Sherlock in his entirety. It hurt. Quite a bit more than he expected it to.

Sherlock didn’t immediately reply as John was already turning away from him. John reached for the door latch and Sherlock tried again to grab his sleeve, only to be shoved off. John savagely kicked open his door and stomped out in the rain; his shoulders hunched and his hands fisted in his pockets. Sherlock scowled at his antics and opened his own door to thrust his head outside.

“And where do you plan to go?” Sherlock yelled over the rain. “You can’t just leave.”

John whipped around to bare his teeth at the detective. He screamed, “I  _know!_  I’m trapped here with you. Whether I like it or not, you’ve  _all I have left_.” Sherlock recoiled as if stricken; his muscles locked tight and all he could do was stare into John’s enraged face that, upon Sherlock’s lack of response, slid into something far less passionate and much, much more cold. “It’s what you always wanted, wasn’t it? You’ve gotten me. All my time. All my attention. There’s absolutely no one else in my world but  _you_.” With as much bitter venom as he could muster, he added, “And are you happy for it?”

Sherlock said not a word in response. He looked away from John’s expectant face, though he did not miss the shadowed look of confirmation as he slid back into his seat, hair dripping rain that he did not have the energy to wipe away from where it chilled his skin. His hand shook and he did nothing to still it.

From outside the car, John resolutely refused to let his anger move him. Parting from the car now, even just to blow off steam, was hardly wise. And as much as it must have killed him to stay close to Sherlock then, his anger wasn’t worth risking his life. The distance created by the closed door would have to suffice.

To Sherlock the distance never seemed so insurmountable.

 

 

 

**Chapter Art:**

[by justaholmesboy.](http://justaholmesboy.tumblr.com/post/90190307558/commission-for-garrulousgibberish-of-some-art-for)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's still a bit rough because my beta's a bit busy and hasn't had a chance to look at it. If you see anything off, please let me know! And thank you guys so much for your help and support so far. It helps so much!

**Author's Note:**

> For story related posts and drawings, or if you have any questions (that I would love to answer), check out my Tumblr or DA. Or if you wish to follow on FF, here's the link!
> 
>  **Tumblr:** http://garrulousgibberish.tumblr.com/tagged/Rats-in-the-System  
>  **deviantART:** http://garrulousgibberish.deviantart.com/gallery/39362351  
>  **Fanfiction:** http://www.fanfiction.net/s/7764124/1/Rats-in-the-System
> 
> As always, any and all comments and kudos are lovingly appreciated. :)


End file.
